A Poem for the Clement Dinner

An typed document signed "J. B. C." Possibly Jesse B. Clement (1842-1914). Undated but text in section 3 suggests 1891. It offers a vague and cheerleading history of the Clements in North America.

I.

In Sixteen Hundred and -- let me see,
Old ramily records will not agree
And so I really ought not state
Accurately the very date; --
But thereabouts, in Boston town
To that goodly tavern "The Golden Crown"
(Close by the Common creaked its sign)
All the Clements came to dine.

Clements from Salem, Clements from Lynn,
Clements from Haverhill -- all came in,
Solemn of speech and sober faced,
With creeds and jackets both straight-laced,
With hats remarkable for brims
And in every hand a book of hymns;
Came with their wives on a pillion behind
And as heavy a musket as they could find;
They were troublous times for the roads were bad
And the Indians made them go prepared.

There was an invited guest or two --
Priscilla perhaps and John Alden too
And I've always thought had that same John
Happened to be a Clement's son
He never would have had to be told
To speak for himself by that hussy bold

There was one of the Mather's I have no doubt
Always ready to have a bout
With any sinner who seemed to care
For anything but a feast of prayer;
And then as the Clements were folks of note
The Governor came in his meeting coat

Women on this side, men on that
(And every man of them wore his hat )
The feast was solemn, they never smiled,
Life was too earnest to be beguiled
By frivolous things. They could only sing
And toast -- in a formal way -- "The King"

II.

Seventeen Hundred and -- quite a lot
(No need to mention the year to a jot)
But the "Golden Crown" had another name
And another sign and on the same
Were Liberty caps and in between
A cluster of stars that would count thirteen

The Clements had met to dine again
A brave array of women and men,
Clements from Lowell, Clements from Lynn
Clements from Dracut -- all came in

Came with a bustle of gay brocade
And gorgeous waistcoats and silver braid,
With buckles of silver and buttons to match
With powder and many a dainty patch.
Men who had fought at Bunker Hill
And helped that cargo of tea to spill,
Men who objected to being taxed
Without so much as being 'axed;
Men who had severed the tyrant's yoke
And planted the acorn from which the oak
Of our Great Land has grown and spread
Till its shelter is sought by every head
That feels oppressed. They were the men
Who won the title of Citizen.

The feast was gay with, color and light
The merriment ran far into the night
With sparkling of eyes when the gallants set
Their stately steps in a minuet

And the rafters rang with deafening cheers
That echo to us through the distant years
As they toasted the Clements one by one
Who fought with Warren and Washington

III.

Eighteen Hundred and Ninety-one
The Clements meet again and none
Who sees beyond the change in dress
But will not in his heart confess
These Clement folk are much the same
As those of our fathers who bore our name.

Honest and fearless, firm for right
Willing to suffer or even fight
For their opinions (or be there need
Against any tinkering with their creed)
The times are not heroic now,
Men talk and smile and bend and bow;
They sell their goods or write their briefs
And trim their sermons with new beliefs,
Turn their sails to every breeze
And call it success if they but please

There are no battles to be fought
With savages or a hostile Court
But there is a struggle to be a Man
And that with our Clement blood we can.

So at our feast we shall not sing
The praises of any crown or king
Or even the honored names of those
Whose lives have blossomed like the rose
Along the path our Land has trod
Guided by the hand of God.

But let us raise our loudest cheers
To those of our blood in the distant years
The Pilgrims and all the sturdy host
So fill up a bumper and drink this toast
(We are sober folk of Puritan kin
So be it pure water we drink it in)

Hail to that first Clement who reached our shore
And all the Clements who've gone before.

J. B. C.